


All It Takes is a Plate of Pancakes

by philsgiggles



Series: Fic Fests [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 23:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philsgiggles/pseuds/philsgiggles
Summary: Phil, who is on the search for a new apartment, house sits for his best friend while he was away.





	1. Phil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "house sitting", "pancakes", and "opposites" prompts of the bingo phandom fic fest!  
> Enjoy, my sweets...

The key was stuck. Brilliant. Now he’d have to explain to Dan why exactly he couldn’t get into his apartment. And why his key was likely broken. And why some hooligan was probably going to break in somehow and mess with his shit. And all because Phil apparently didn’t know how to open doors on his own.

No. This wasn’t good.

Phil strained, gripping the key hard enough to leave an indent of its shape in the fleshy pad of his thumb. Determination drove him to yank on the hard stump of metal even harder, muscles straining embarrassingly hard. Suddenly, it popped out. Phil stumbled backwards.

Ignoring the question of _how the hell did you manage to get it stuck in the first place, you spoon_ , he pushed through the white wooden door. He noted the clean-cut nature of it, how, unlike his own, the whole of the paint was intact, the color pure, unmarred by clumsy scratches or colorful trinkets. They lived in a sleek modern building, and still Dan was one of the most dedicated to maintaining appearances, evident in the cheery flickering light of a mounted black lantern to the left of the door (which Phil knew he had to petition the landlord to install - purely for the aesthetic), opposite a clear business card holder filled to the brim with crisp, uniform white cards.

An alarm blared, but he thankfully remembered the code texted to him hours earlier, 0130, and quickly shut it off before there were any consequences, namely the police coming to arrest him for breaking and entering. He made certain to toe off his shoes as he crossed the threshold, all too aware of Dan’s rules about shoes on his fancy new hardwood floors. That one time Phil forgot… Well, he’d rather not discuss it. Let alone reenact it should Dan ever find out.

“Honey, I’m home!” He called out. It echoed throughout the open space, muffled only by the plush furniture. Sometimes Phil wondered why Dan still chose to live there - it wasn’t a dive by any means, but from his family’s money and his own substantial income, he could certainly afford a more secluded area. (Though it was in the wealthier area, there was still plenty of crime nearby.) But he tried not to think about it too hard. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” and all that, right?

He stepped through the entrance, heaving his bags, which had a little alcove with a round dining table off to the left, stopping only to drop them off, and to the kitchen. A snack was calling his name. Now that was one thing Dan didn’t mind him taking complete advantage of. He always teased him that he was getting too skinny. (It reminded Phil worryingly of his grandma).

So Phil knew he was well within his rights to grab a Tupperware of apple slices out of the fridge (Dan kept them in lemon juice containers - Phil didn’t get it, either) and survey the apartment from atop a sleek black countertop, eyes adjusting to the dark again after being flashed by the refrigerator's white light.

However strange it might sound (and Phil could admit it did sound _pretty odd_ ), Phil loved sitting on not-normal things. Things like countertops or railings or… a few other choice things. And all of his available counter space at his own apartment was covered in script manuscripts and unfinished works and obscure papers he had no idea the origin of. So he would make good use of Dan’s neurotic cleaning. Might as well.

The apartment, as expected, was pristine, and Phil knew he’d have to keep it that way for the duration of his time there. That right there was going to be the major challenge of the next four and a quarter days.

_Something_ had possessed clean, neurotic, nitpicky Daniel Howell to enlist _Phil_ to watch over his house, whom he knew all too well - without any access to his cell, no less - and Phil was determined to keep him from regretting that decision. Even if it meant he would have to change his habits drastically. Or at least spend a few hours hurriedly cleaning the night before Dan was due home.

Reluctantly leaving behind his snack, he hopped off the counter and into the open living room, across from wide, clear windows spanning the breadth of the space. The night was beginning, the lights of the city glowing in the distance. As he advanced toward the glass, his motions slowing, he noticed the yellow street lamps below. He leaned his head forward, brushing against the glass, and watched a lone man slowly walk by in a suit. A longing to be outside and breathe in the night air took Phil over and he backed away after a lingering moment.

Spending so much time at Dan’s apartment over the years, almost more than how much he spent at his own, from hours of exhausting gameplay and banter, and deep conversations on the couch currently behind him, to getting drunk off their asses and deliriously fooling around in the master bedroom (never to speak of it again, to save Phil’s poor burning cheeks), gave him certain knowledge of the layout. Turning to his right, he wove through armchairs and by a minimalistic white fireplace, and into the master bedroom. Once inside, he made a beeline forty five degrees to his left and slipped through the glass doors.

For a moment, as he savored the air, he felt, for the first time in too long, the glow of inspiration lit up his heart. His breath caught and, fighting the urge to sprint inside and jot it down somewhere, he forced himself to remain still. Enjoy the moment for what it was.

There was something mystical about the dark, something romantic and pure. Anything could happen. The city’s black silhouette against the darkening sky, just visible in the dying light, comforted him. He wondered how different it would feel if he were in his own apartment. Or what used to be.

City life had never appealed to Phil as a child. He grew up in the cheery suburbs of a mid-size city, with enough exposure to pop culture to remain knowledgeable, but without the intimate knowledge of urban living and its associated downsides. So moving to such a large city - by himself - was a surprising and daunting task.

But when he met Dan for the first time, accidentally trapping him in an elevator stuffed with boxes, it all seemed easier. Not just the move, either. And maybe it wasn’t only the scared pseudo-country-boy inside of Phil Dan appealed to.

When he heard a man start screaming something unintelligible below, Phil knew the moment was effectively ruined, and headed back inside. Noticing the apple container still on the counter as he retrieved his bags, he chided himself. _These_ were the sorts of habits he had to curb while he was at Dan’s. Phil tidied his mess, returning the strange apple-lemon mixture back to its neat cubby, but when he made out to pick up his heavy bags, he paused.

Dan _had_ assured him that he could sleep in his bed, as there was no guest room, but he still felt… weird about it. Almost like he was invading his privacy, like he was being too… intimate? Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but sleeping in someone else’s bed, someone whose name has been on Phil’s lips whilst he came for years, someone whose eyes have been studied by Phil to the point where he could describe every fleck of color, someone who Phil felt things harder for than ever before… It felt strange to presume to sleep in his bed, the most personal of spaces. So he would resign himself to one of the long white couches and be comforted by watching the bustle of the city below him.

He didn’t bother to move his bags after making his choice. After all, everything he owned (minus the few items he pawned off to his family for safekeeping, as well as the large items put away in storage containers he didn’t want to empty), was stuffed in those bags, and he simply didn’t have the upper-body strength. Moving was shit. But at least Dan was being a good friend and helping him out.

Friend. That was what he was. No matter what Phil’s lovesick heart might want. A good friend.

Tired of the dark all of a sudden, he flicked on a lightswitch by the entrance. Dark spots furiously popped up in his abused eyes, but after standing still for a moment and blinking them away, he was free to return to perusing Dan’s stash. Not like there would be anything different to discover; Dan liked to keep things consistent, whether that be at work or in his pantry, so Phil wasn’t expecting anything groundbreaking. But when he reached into a cabinet, he found a box of something that hadn’t been there before - fluffy pancake mix.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking, but he knew Dan, and he knew this was not a regular occurance. Phil frowned at the box and wondered what prompted Dan to buy it. Not that he was complaining - quite the opposite, actually - but it was certainly unusual.

It didn’t really matter in the end, though, and Phil was excited to try out the mix. Not that he’d likely get anywhere with it, what with his clumsy hands and dismal baking skills, but he could try!

He yawned, rolling his shoulders back with a satisfying crunch. In the morning. For now, though, he’d like to finish his apartment tour and go to sleep. Never having been alone in Dan’s flat before, curiosity incited him to explore. He’d be living there for several days, after all. Might as well get to know the place.

Without Dan there, the flat seemed drained. Whether that was from Phil’s overdramatic nature and background in arts, or from his intimate knowledge of Dan, he didn’t know. It still felt like Dan, had pieces of his… aura… in the black and white furnishing and the large moon above his bed, but without him there, it lacked any color, life. It was devoid of the parts of Dan that made him so perfect, the quirky bits, the ones that liked stupid video games and laughed too loudly and cursed too often, and though it was _him_ , it wasn’t him. His flat screamed _serious attorney_ , but outside of the office and the stuffy airs there, Phil got to discover that the _real_ Dan did not. Maybe he just needed a houseplant. Or two. Phil _was_ looking for a place to store them as he went apartment hunting. Leaving his plants in a storage container was difficult, as it’s difficult for him to keep them alive normally, and he would love to let them see the light of day again. (His family, sadly, did not indulge his houseplant love wholeheartedly, and only the smaller ones were at their house).

Hopefully it wouldn’t take long. Right? There had to be plenty of young men, aged twenty to thirty, in the big city alone, with large apartments that had cheap rent, that wouldn’t mind having a messy antisocial roommate who lugged around a camera wherever he went, and were within walking distance of this building. Right.

Phil sighed and ducked into the master bedroom. He hesitated for a moment but, reasoning that it was a stupid indulgence and Dan would never find out, slid open the pocket door into the bathroom, padded through it, and entered his large closet. Dan always joked about having to make it comfortable, being in it for so long. And Phil couldn’t dispute him on that - it was a little… a lot.

Two full-length mirrors stood on either side of a large dresser that housed shoes and accessories, in between huge rows of shirts and pants stacked tightly together, even in the excessive space provided. He had a foot stool for Christ’s sake! And a chandelier! Granted, it was modern and minimalistic, but it was still a chandelier.

Without any distinct reason, Phil took a few more steps into the closet, about to turn tail when he caught sight of shelves to his right he had never noticed before. Flicking on the second light in the room, his eyes widened. On floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves were hordes of… things.

Things ranging from ticket stubs to coins to framed photos. Photos, Phil realized with a strange flurry in his stomach, that he took himself. In fact, he found when he inspected more carefully, he was pretty sure that every photo he ever printed for Dan on that fancy printer of his was framed and positioned there, amidst the clutter of figurines and mementos. And here was where he discovered Dan’s personality, wound in a tight little ball literally in the back of his closet, when he should be spreading it out over the apartment.

Feeling like a creep, Phil only allowed himself a few moments of staring before retreating to the main living area, flipping off the lights as he went. But even as he chided himself for his strange behavior, his tummy swirled. Dan had even kept the stupid picture the tradition began with, Phil dangling his camera off a ledge to take a candid shot of Dan discussing with a coworker before his and Phil’s lunchtime excursion. He would never tell Dan, but he just looked too beautiful for Phil to resist in that moment. And, like everything else in his life, he had to share it with Dan. So he printed it out on shiny cardstock for Dan, passing it off on an indulgence of his ever-present love for photography (which was what urged him to follow his passion for film in the first place). And under the guise of improving his camera skills to be more informed when making decisions in his work and actually know what he was talking about so he didn’t look like a fool in front of the cameramen. Plus, it was fun. Even more so when he had such a breathtaking muse in front of the camera.

And Dan kept them. All of them. (Or so it appeared; one photo a week for months on end led to more pictures than Phil could remember off the top of his head). And what’s more, he framed them.

Phil smiled to himself. What a good friend. How lucky had it been that he met him that day? He couldn’t imagine meeting Dan in any other capacity, as both of them rarely socialized, especially not with the members of their building. In fact, the only ones Phil knew by more than their face were Kyle, his roommate of several years, and Dan. In all honesty, Kyle and his university days might not count, with the miniscule amount of free time they decided to spend together - they weren’t the closest of friends - and still weren’t, despite their shared living space. It was one of the larger factors in Phil looking for his own place. But other than them and the kind old lady he always ran into on her way down from the gym, he stayed to himself. (He had no recollection of her name, but her snickerdoodles were unforgettable.)

A bear yawn came, dismissing all thoughts of pictures and cookies. Later. For now, sleep.

~~~

Phil passed out the instant he collapsed onto the couch, stiff though it might be, teeth brushed and pajamas donned, unable to do anything else at the end of such a long day. His sleep was full of brown locks and soft hands. And when he woke up, the sun was high, the city was filled with noise, and Phil with a drive to create, the likes of which had escaped him for weeks. So create he did.

The day passed in a blur of passion easing out of his fingertips. Ironic that a director had been directionless for so long, but now it was thankfully rectified. Visions filled his head, blurry ideas lingering in the back of his mind brought to the forefront and expanded upon until they shined. And when the day ended, he was content, his ideas scraped out of him and excitement taking their place. He was finally ready to work on this film. Only a few weeks to go. He smiled to himself as he laid down on the couch for another night.


	2. Phil

The second night, he couldn’t sleep.

Frustratingly tossing and turning, mind running a million miles per hour, Phil grumbled to himself under his breath.

And after only a few hours of split-up sleep, the sun rose behind the huge windows and Phil reluctantly rose with it.

~~~

By half past seven, he was scrunched up in the clear chair on the corner of the balcony, a mug in his grip filled to the brim with his beloved instant coffee. Dan outwardly protested the “swill” Phil favored so much, but kept it stocked in his pantry nonetheless. Phil counted himself lucky to have such a considerate friend, even if he bitched about his considerate deeds sometimes.

He could’ve gone to the gym, or met with a coworker for lunch. But instead there he was, curled up like a cat and clutching a mug of sugar with a splash of coffee. And he didn’t mind one bit, far from it. Because more than the fact that Phil was both diametrically opposed to participating in both exercise and social interaction aside from the required, it was… nice to know he was in Dan’s flat, even if he was alone.

For a long while before Dan, he had felt lost and alone consistently and completely, and sure, it made for some great indie films, but he had forgotten how else to live life. So the reminder than Phil was _allowed_ to do this, to drink Dan’s coffee and take up space in his house - his life - felt incredible.

He hummed a note to himself and watched the hustle and bustle of the waking city.

~~~

By noon, his exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders and he decided on a venture to the town in search of ice cream.

~~~

By five, he had indulged in a dinner of marshmallows and that Japanese ramen Dan had shipped in in a subscription box every month.

~~~

By five thirty, he had burnt his mouth rather badly (but managed to scarf it down nonetheless), and had several ice cubes melting in his mouth. And he was fucking frustrated. He needed some sleep. So he made a decision.

~~~

By only eight o’clock, Phil was situated in Dan’s bed, somewhat guiltily. Soft sheets were wrapped around him and he sank into the plush mattress, which was far more comfortable that the uber modern couch he had endured the previous night. It was a wonder he held out so long.

And as always, his mind began to wander. To a question he had been attempting to answer all day: how does one tell a story?

Whatever medium it might be, what makes a story? Do the cold, hard facts, unwavering in their truth, or do emotions, ever-changing and shifting, matter more in the end? And if the emotions of the moment are more effective, can the truth change to get the emotion across? Should it?

Because is an honest story one with honest emotion or with a truthful narrative? Does it matter if it’s fiction? But even fictional characters have their personal truth, their own story, outside of the snippet the audience gets to see. And if the artist contradicts that, does it have the power to negate all of the work that went into them, to unravel their very being, fictional or not, and will the audience even notice? And if they don’t, doesn’t it seem like that in and of itself is dishonest, pulling the wool over the eyes of its intended, who it was created for?

For that matter, who is more important in the end, the artist or the audience? Should the audience be able to dictate what is created, or should the artist do what they feel is best? Should the focus be on giving the people what they want or on fulfilling oneself, even if it might not be as financially wise?

And if the artist gives priority to the audience, or a group or a member of the audience individually, does that compromise the piece? Because no longer is it pure artistic expression, it is manipulated and shaped by the influence of others. But if that’s the case, how does one validate even the most basic of editing and asking for help? Or, perhaps, is this priority born of inspiration?

Inspiration itself was a fickle thing. It was always argued that it could not be copying or ripping off, but in certain cases, it’s a muddy gray area. And nothing can begin, no piece of art, film, writing, what have you, without it.

So if it’s so vital to the creative process, wouldn’t it make sense to always keep a well of it on hand? Is that what a muse was?

But a muse couldn’t possibly be what it seemed to imply: some kind of classical grace and beauty, feeling somehow like a marble statue of a Greek god. Because how could one draw inspiration from that? There was no humanity in that.

No, a muse had to be a _person_ , someone lovely and real, with flaws and strengths woven into one another. Phil longed for that with all his heart.

With a pang in his chest and the strangest feeling that he was overlooking something obvious, Phil nodded off to sleep.

He slept better that nigh than he had in God knows how long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggles in the moon room uwu

A man was in his bed. His soft black hair fanned out over the pillow and he breathed softly, an angel in an oversized black shirt. Dan blinked.

A man was in his _shirt_. And not just any man. It happened to be the one man he craved so desperately to see like this, leading Dan to wonder if he was a dream. A mirage. No mere man should be allowed to take Dan’s breath away like this.

He ran a large hand over his face. No time to dwell on feelings or… sentimental yearnings. Sleep was calling his name. The morning was always an option; nothing had to get done tonight. Except… 

Dan took note of the state of his room. It was no less cluttered and chaotic than the main living space. The floor, barely visible beneath piles of clothes, seemingly tossed this way and that out of the suitcase in the middle of the floor, screamed at him to clean. But, for whatever reason, he didn’t mind as much as he usually might. He just smiled helplessly as he watched the rising and falling of the chest of the beautiful sleeping man in his bed.

Even the oppressive darkness around him, the night seeping into his pores like viscous ooze, didn’t faze him, not when there was a man-sized beacon in his bed.

Always aware of his relative distance from the man in his bed, Dan brushed his teeth with care. He washed his face. And he stripped down to his underwear. He knew it would be fine; their particular brand of friendship led to them being nonplussed by the other in minimal clothing. As well, it was a known fact that Dan couldn’t sleep with a shirt or pants on.

Carefully, always so carefully, he lifted the covers to slide under. When he was laid on his back, he let them fall back in place. And considered.

All of a sudden those “sentimental yearnings” were at the forefront of his mind, blocking his path to sleep. But he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t.

But what if he could?

The man in his bed wouldn’t remember, surely. And it would be comforting to be held after such a trip.

Making up his mind with a single-minded decisiveness, Dan summoned some nerve and turned to his side. He scooted toward the man in his bed and threw his left arm over his torso, pressing against his back.

“Mm…” Dan froze at a noise from the other occupant of the bed. But when it faded and he only shifted slightly, melting completely into Dan, Dan breathed a sigh of relief.

Perhaps he could. But no one could know about it.

Dan placed his head on a pillow and breathed in the scent of the beautiful sleeping man in his bed. Almost immediately, the warmth of the man in his bed, the knowledge that this comforting presence was with him, lulled Dan into a deep, peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will very likely be editing these in the future.


	4. Phil

Phil had a marvelous dream. The world around him, the bedroom, though swathed in monochrome tones, similar to its real-world equivalent, inflated him with color. Because that was Dan Howell’s hand in his own, Dan Howell’s arm draped over Phil’s. That was his breath on his neck, and his whispered hello in his ear.

Reality blurred in the way of a peaceful dream, Phil murmured a soft greeting. And when he absentmindedly told Dan he loved him, truth slipping out in this dreamland, he said it back. The corners of Phil’s mouth lifted, happiness lifting him to the clouds but Dan’s strong arm tethering him to the ground. His sleep from that point until the dawn was peaceful and uninterrupted, brain finally at ease.

~~~

_Hiss_.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Phil blinked open his eyes blearily to a muffled shout from the kitchen. That sounded like Dan’s voice. How wonderful. He smiled to himself and turned over to go back to sleep.

Wait.

Dan?

“Shit!” Phil sat up rimrod straight. _He isn’t supposed to be back yet!_ He took in the room, from the rumpled black bed covers and throw pillows, to brightly colored shucked clothes thrown haphazardly onto the floor, to Phil himself lounging around in _Dan’s clothes_. Covering his face in his hands, he let gravity pull him onto his back, crashing softly into the plush white mattress.

Out of the blue, distinctive contentment overtook him, anxious though he was due to the unprepared state of Dan’s flat.

And then the anxiety took over again, throwing him out of bed and onto the floor where he frantically sorted his clothes back into the suitcase from whence they came in neat piles. He’d have to rush through some laundry as soon as he got to… wherever he was going.

But when another muffled curse came from the kitchen following another loud sizzle, not suppressed by the walls of the apartment whatsoever, he decided to investigate, incriminating outfit or not.

And there he was, brown hair mussed by sleep, dancing on his tiptoes around the stovetop, from which smoke was rising. Phil didn’t worry about it though; Dan had turned on the vent above it, so the firemen thankfully wouldn't be alerted. Plus, he was still groggy from sleep and not much would register as unfortunate, not when he had Dan Howell in his sights.

Phil ventured forward. “Dan?”

~~~

A wash of steam came over Phil’s face when the fluffy pancakes finally arrived. His stomach growled.

It was even better than he had imagined: four enormous moist pancakes with caramel oozing from between them, a dollop of whipped cream on top. Across the table, Dan’s were being placed in front of him, more plain things but enticing nonetheless, with their sprinkling of spices and similar drop of cream on top.

“Cinn-A-Spice with no cream cheese frosting, vanilla spice pancakes.” The waiter smiled politely when Phil thanked them and briskly walked back to a booth in the corner with an unhappy toddler threatening to drop a plate on the floor without the watchful eye of its currently oblivious parents tucking into their own plates.

Phil’s mouth watered as he stared down at his plate with a ravenous expression, considering how to best go about spooning in the most food in each bite. When he settled on a decision, he noticed Dan across the table, eyebrows raised as he methodically cut bite-sized portions of each pancake in order.

But he didn’t regret his planning, not at all. Because the moment that enormous mouthful of cinnamon and sugar and light pancake graced his tongue, he ascended to another plane. He then informed Dan of this fact, pancake warbling his speech.

“Better than my burnt ones, I’m sure,” Dan said with a self-deprecating grin.

“No comment…” Phil said, swallowing his pancakes down. “But I mean… It was still pretty nice.”

Dan smiled down at his plate as Phil remembered the question he had been meaning to ask.

“By the way, why are you back? You said it’d be in two days.”

“Nah, you’re much more fun that those dicks at the cabin.” Something occurred to Dan and he blushed furiously.

“What?” Phil asked.

Dan seemed to blush harder. “Nothing.”

Phil decided to drop it; it was obviously a small thing or he’d know. “Weren’t those ‘dicks’ your family?”

“Yeah,” Dan grumbled. “God knows how I even managed as long as I did.”

“Mm.”

Conversation faded as they stuffed their faces with pancake, the background noise of the restaurant providing a backdrop. After a few minutes of a frantic scarfing down of sugar (at least in Phil’s case; somehow Dan managed to keep his cool in the face of this delicious meal), Phil spoke again, hesitantly.

“Though I am pretty gr - what?” Dan seemed to be holding in laughter.

At Phil’s question, he let it out fondly and leaned over the table, wiping something off of Phil’s nose with the tip of his left index finger. When he leaned back, Phil noticed something white and fluffy that wasn’t there before.

“Oh.” He blushed. “Uh, thanks.” Peculiarly, Dan’s fond expression never faltered, and Phil felt himself melting into the gaze, almost literally, his face heating up and joints relaxing. IHOP with Dan Howell was more than he could have ever dreamt up, more simple emotions than he could imbue into a film. Even if Dan looked unsure, even if Phil had no control over himself. Even if he accidentally dropped his fork onto the table as he stared at the boy in front of him, drawing out a warm smile at his trademark clumsiness.

Something shifted in Dan’s eyes.

And in a flash, he surged forward over the table to press his lips to Phil’s.

In that moment, when Phil saw him approaching, his mind went completely blank, the only thought able to pass through his mind being _oh no, he’s gonna get whipped cream on his shirt._

But when their lips were connected and his brain went haywire, the thought fled.

Because he was kissing Dan Howell. Dan Howell was kissing him. And it was fucking amazing.

But all too soon, the brunet pulled away and settled back into his seat with a glance around.

Phil pouted. “Hey!”

Dan grinned. “Hey?”

“When did that happen?”

Dan averted his eyes.

Phil pouted some more. “Hey…”

“Your first premier I think.”

Phil considered for a moment before adoring surprise came over his face. “Dan. That was my second week here.”

Dan only hummed in response, still avoiding his eyes.

“Fuck.” A moment passed as Phil debated whether or not to continue. “Wanna do that again?”

“Uh.” Dan finally met his eyes with a wry smile. “Not in the middle of IHOP, Phil.”

“Oh. Right.”

A beat.

“Completely unrelated, uh, where’s our waiter?” Their eyes met, clicking into place. Apparently, sometimes all it takes are some good-ass pancakes.

Phil let something inside him finally relax. Finally he found his muse. And finally everything clicked into place. He let out a happy sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments make me happier than Phil decorating "too much" for holidays!


End file.
